Mind Games
by Jennie
Summary: It's my game now, Flannery, and the rules are quite simple. If you survive, you win. It's a deadly game that Matt is forced to play and Emily is right in the middle of it. ME, very dark and angsty.
1. Chapter 1: Fear

**Title:** Mind Games

**Summary:** "It's my game now, Flannery, and the rules are quite simple. If you survive, you win." It's a deadly game that Matt is forced to play- and Emily is right in the middle of it. ME, very dark and angsty.

**Characters:** Matt, Emily, the team, OCs

**Warnings:** Dark, very dark.

**Rating:** At the moment, PG-13/T. But I might have to move it up to R/M, if it requires it.

**AN:** Another **Standoff **fic from me. I seem to be currently obsessed with this show at the moment. Not sure whether that's a good thing or not... Anyways, this fic is me coming back to my angst and dark filled roots that I've been ignoring for the last year- and therefore is extremely angsty, and extremely dark. I don't even know if I can promise a happy ending... So, I do hope you read and enjoy and review, but seriously, if you can't handle dark fics, then stay away. This is also going to be strange- at least some of the chapters. So, yeah, be forewarned.

And since it's late now, and I think I've rambled enough- I hope that if you do read, you at least are somewhat intrigued and I would love to hear from you. Thanks you.

**Chapter 1:** **Fear**

It's his worst nightmare.

He doesn't even know if she's still alive.

She's lying on the floor, covered in blood, motionless. He doesn't even know if she's _breathing_- but he can't move. He's frozen in his own fear- unable to move, for the terror he will find if he does.

She can't be dead.

She _can't_ be.

He won't let her.

He forces himself to take a step closer, to kneel down beside her, to touch her pulse.

He doesn't know what he'll do if she's dead.

It's his fault, after all.

Hesitant fingers reach out to lightly caress her flesh. It's cold, ice cold, but the silent beat is there- she lives.

She _lives_.

"Oh my God, Emily, no, no, stay with me, wake up, wake up, I didn't mean for this to happen to you, I should have listened, it's okay, please wake up..." He runs a hand across her neck, across her cheek, paying no heed to the words coming from his mouth. He's desperate for some recognition from her, some sign that she isn't hanging between life and death, as she seems to be.

She's so _cold_.

So _lifeless_.

He has no idea how long she has been like this, and how long she has left. Blood is smeared on her lips, and he traces them with a finger, feeling only the most shallow of breaths pass through them. He then lifts up his hand- and it's covered in blood.

_The blood is recent_, his mind puts together, _she can't have been like this for long, there's still hope left._

_Hope_.

She _can_ survive this.

She _will_ survive this.

He won't let her die. Not like this. Not ever.

She looks so broken...

He closes his eyes, remembers the last time he saw her, before she was taken- before he _let_ her be taken. He can't let her current state influence him, let him think that she's already dead, that there is no chance of revival.

"Come on, Emily," he pulls himself together, feels for her heartbeat once more. He can't make a mistake. He needs to be calm, collected. He can't let his emotions get in the way. _He_ needs to survive, in order to save her. "Let's get you out of here."

He reaches down to cradle her to his body, to somehow move her out of there, to somehow get help...she can't stay here, in this cold, unforgiving place. She needs warmth and comfort and he can't leave her. Not now, not after this. He can't force himself to go away, even if it means getting help. She _must_ come with him. He just prays that her condition won't worsen after her being moved.

But it's a chance he has to take.

Slowly, his arms grasped around her torso, he attempts to stand. It's not going to be easy, moving her-especially since he has to be extremely careful of her current state. But he'll manage it- he has to.

It's fault she's on the brink of death.

And then he hears a sound that will haunt his memories.

_Click_.

Suddenly cold metal is pressed up against his ear- and he freezes.

"Congratulations, Special Agent Flannery, you've made it this far. Now comes the next part of your little challenge."

Another click, and he instantly knows that it's a pistol that's currently being trained at his head.

He swallows.

"And what would that be?" He fights to keep his voice steady. He has to remain calm. He can't risk getting her hurt even worse. There has to be _something_ he can do...

But the answer sends a chill down his spine, and he realizes there's very little hope left.

"Death."


	2. Chapter 2: Night Terrors

**Disclaimer:** The characters aren't mine, but the plot is.

**AN:** Thanks to all the reviewers and readers. is being rather annoying to me at the moment- it's not letting me review, is picky about PMs and doesn't like me signing in at all, really. So sorry about not responding yet- I need to do a lot of reviewing and responding one of these days... I also just started University this week. I'm majoring in Chemistry, which is supposed to be incredibly time-consuming and challenging, so don't wonder if I get busy and disappear for a bit- it's because Uni has taken over my life. I also ended up moving, which means that at the moment, I don't have an internet connection at home. And in Germany, the concept of WLAN is still pretty foreign... So yeah, factors add up and it might take me a bit to update. But finally I have Chapter 2 for you, so I think I'll let you get on with reading. Hope you enjoy it!

* * *

**Chapter 2: **Night Terrors

_Two months prior_

He watched her die.

It took all of a second for her to fall forwards into him, his arms automatically reaching out to catch her. He didn't even realize that she was shot until he _felt_ the blood on his hands, until it was too late. He looked into her eyes in surprise, bewildered, because just three seconds ago, she was fine.

Now she was anything but.

And as their eyes locked, her lips whispered '_love you_'- and that was the end.

He still held her lifeless body, frozen in place. He could see, hear, _feel_ the frenzy of movement of those around him, their calls for an ambulance, the call for the suspect to be detained, held down. It was controlled chaos, no one sure of how to act when one of their own was shot down- right in front of them, completely unnoticed. They bustled around, and he, on one level, knew that Cheryl was saying something to him. But he did not hear the words, did not process them.

He was in his own little world, a world where all the lights had just gone out, all the hope had disappeared, and all the happiness and joy were sucked up into a black hole of despair.

She was dead.

And he died right along beside her.

Not even the ringing of the phone could bring him out of his terror, even as Cheryl called his name and the ringing got louder and louder and _damn_ it- couldn't they just leave him alone? He squeezed his arms tighter around her, refusing to let her leave him, prying the last bit of comfort- of _Emily_ from the vessel that harbored her-

And awakes, to darkness.

Panting, sweaty, he sits up, blinking the horrible images away from his eyes.

It is just a dream.

A _dream_.

He doesn't know whether to be relieved or horrified.

_Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream, just a dream, just a dream..._

She's not dead.

She's alive.

She's probably home in her apartment, asleep- just like he should be.

_Ring, ring, ring_.

Suddenly he's fully awake, fumbling for the clock, for the phone. It's three-twenty-seven am, and while he should be thankful that the ringing is what brought him out of his nightmare, it's also the signal that while _he_ might be all right- someone else isn't.

There's no other reason to ring a crisis negotiator at three in the morning.

He's used to the calls, knowing that his job has no official off-time. It's a twenty-four/seven job, one that he does enjoy, but one that also brings a lot of emotional baggage with it. He deals with bad guys daily, bad guys who threaten to murder or maim or do other horrible things to people, and it's up to him to convince them not to. Full of pressure and it's worse when he fails- when the HTs actually succeed in their missions. He knows it's on his head then- it shouldn't be, he didn't force them to take those people hostage, to torture them or worse- but it still is, because _he_ was supposed to talk them out of it. It's _his_ job to stop it.

It's something he has to do.

His parents- when he occasionally speaks with them- are not thrilled with his profession. They'd prefer something more on the sidelines, not in the middle of it all. But he can't stop, because for every person he fails to save (he _kills_), there are others he saves. That is what keeps him sane, grounded, able to wake up in the morning and go into the office and negotiate with the next HT.

It doesn't do anything for the nightmares, though.

_Ring._

The phone.

It's on his nightstand, and he doesn't bother looking at the number before answering. "What?"

Silence.

"Hello?"

Silence.

Not even breathing is heard over the line, and he wonders if it was just an accident- a phone being squished in a bag or pocket, and accidentally dialing- or something similar.

He tries once more to get a response, before resolving to hang up if no one is indeed there.

"Anyone there?"

Nothing.

With a frown, he hangs up. He's wide awake now, a habit formed of many late night calls. He won't be getting back to sleep- not that he wants to, after what he awoke from.

_Emily_.

He has a sudden desire to call her, just to hear her voice. The phone is in his hand, his thumb poised over the 'send' button, before he snaps out of it. She'll kill him if he calls her at three-thirty in the morning for no reason. And it's not like he can say that he needed to hear her voice after he dreamed that she was dead. She doesn't know of the dreams, and he'd like to keep it that way.

For the last months, he has been plagued with dreams of something happening to Emily- ever since the Kari and Sam Ellis case- dreams where that particular situation escalated to a terrifying degree, ending with her blood on his hands, because it was _his_ fault, _his_ negotiations had failed, _he_ had killed her- he had _murdered_ her. But then the dreams mutated and every new case they had caused an influx of dreams. Soon his nightmares were unpredictable, filled with her dying, night after night, in every way imaginable. Made-up hostage situations, reports he heard on the news about accidents suddenly took over his mind with _her_ in the victim's place. They get worse and worse as time goes on, changing and evolving, but all with the same theme- Emily dies, and it's his fault.

_You need help, Flannery_, his mind enforces, because he knows it's not good to go on like this. He only sleeps well when Emily is beside him, in his arms; because it's the only time he knows she's truly okay. And the wear of insomnia and never sleeping is starting to show. Cheryl will have his head if he dares fall asleep at his desk- but he's had close calls. And Emily herself notices that something isn't quite right- that something is bothering him. If she somehow manages to get it out of him... will she ever respect him again? Won't it just be proof that he _can't_ take care of her, that he's unable to protect her, that he's incompetent as a partner- both at work and out?

_You can't let her now._

_You have to protect her._

He repeats the two mantras in his mind, forcing himself to calm down. He _needs_ to get back to sleep.

But sleep doesn't come, and he lies there for an eternity, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to rid himself of the _feel_ of Emily's blood on his hands.

_Ring_.

The damn phone again.

It's been another hour, and he wonders what it is _this_ time. Yet, once again, complete silence is his answer.

He hangs up, checks the display- the number is not given, and it makes him wonder.

Two phone calls of absolutely nothing are not a normal coincidence, especially an hour apart, in the middle of the night.

But what else would it be?

Nothing.

There _is_ no reason, and there is nothing he can do, except try, once again, to get some sleep- uninterrupted by Emily's lifeless body falling in his arms.

But this time- as sleep finally takes its hold, it is not the image of him cradling her body- it is the image of her body lying in a black hole, with nothing but silence for company.

* * *

"Are you all right?" She touches his shoulder as he walks past. "Because you don't look very good."

"I'm fine," he answers, not wanting to go into it, but unable to brush her off. "I just didn't get much sleep last night." He hadn't woken from another nightmare, but in the morning, when he did wake, the same image of Emily being dead, and completely alone, appeared once again. Not a pleasant image to wake up to, in any case, and after his previous dream, it was worse. The stupid phone calls must have spooked him...

"Oh, poor you," he gives her a questioning look, and she continues. "You look like you need the sleep. You haven't been sleeping well at all, lately, right?"

"Just when I'm with you," he half-jokes, half- confesses. He makes sure that no one is actively listening in on their conversation, before continuing. "Want to hook up tonight?"

She rolls her eyes and hits him lightly on the chest. His plan worked- he succeeded in getting her mind off of his sleeping habits and onto something more...enjoyable. "Your lines never fail to impress me. But- if you add in dinner, I'm in."

"It's a date," he says smiling, and for tonight, he believes he can finally be free of any unpleasant thoughts. "Pick you up at seven?"

"Emily, can I ask you something?" Lia calls before she can answer, and she shrugs at him before trotting off. "Fine with me," she calls, before the two women go off together.

He doesn't know how long he just stands there, watching her.

But watching her go? Is like tearing out his heart, sending horrible images through his head: images of her death, of her being injured, of him standing over a grave.

_This _has _to stop._

_It can't go on any longer._ He knows that it's getting to the point- it's _gotten_ to the point where it's affecting him even in the day light, even when he can be sure she's safe. Pretty soon, these terrifying visions are going to start affecting his work.

He can't let that happen.

He needs to stop this _now_, before it gets to the point of no return.

_But how_?

Because of their relationship, and the shaky ground that their jobs are on, he can't really go to Cheryl and say 'hey, I need counseling because my partner and I are still sleeping together and while I know I said we'd keep it out of the office and field, it turns out that her getting taken hostage _really_ affected me and I need to get over it, because at the moment, I can't sleep without her'.

Yeah. That'd go over well.

On the other hand...what is left?

Either he has to hand-cuff himself to her side (also a brilliant option) or he has to get some kind of help to deal with it.

But he really _really_ hates getting analyzed.

Hell, Emily does it for free- and that already gets on his nerves.

He's not going to _pay_ someone to do it for him - because a departmental visit is definitely out. Not to mention that if Frank ever heard of it...he'd _never_ live it down.

_So..._what to do?

Ignore it? Tried that, didn't work, dreams got worse and now they're taking over his mind.

Deal with it? How?

Tell Emily? _Sure_. That'll go over well.

Tell Cheryl? Not if he wants to keep working with Emily.

Get outside help? Too humiliating.

Plod on through it? Not really a solution, but it seems to be the only thing he can do at the moment...

_Ring._

He snaps back into the present. His cell is ringing again, and he hurries off in search of Emily, answering it on the way.

"Flannery."

Nothing.

Shit.

This is getting really freaky.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Who is this?"

Still on the line.

"Next time you do this, I'm running a trace."

_Click_.

This is all he needs- on top of not being able to think straight, he's got some prank caller bothering the hell out of him.

He's _got_ to focus. Concentrate. Keep busy. Keep occupied. Never slow down.

Maybe he should take up a hobby...

Yeah, like he'd have _time_ for one, with his work schedule.

Running a hand through his hair, he finally stalks off to the basement of the building.

He's sure Frank will love the chance to humiliate him.

* * *

"You're worrying me," she says, running a hand underneath his shirt. They've made it out of her apartment building, and now linger on the curb, basking in each other's presence.

"Do you want me to go?" He just stands there, holding her, reveling in her scent and body heat. It's so comfortable, so soothing...

"No." She snorts at his suggestion. "But you look...haggard."

"And here I thought you thought I looked handsome."

The only thing he can do is jest at the moment. Anything more serious and he's likely to break down.

"Shut up." She punches him lightly under his shirt. "Are you taking me out or not?"

"I don't know...do you deserve it?" He pulls away teasingly, his body protesting at the absence of hers. He kisses her teasing on the cheek instead.

"If I recall correctly, _I_ was the one who did most of the work today, meeting with Lia and the DA, while _you_ played paintball."

"_Lost_ at paintball, actually. But I did it all for you, Em." He's jesting, but he's not. And he's so afraid that she might pick up on it...

"Shut up," she rolls her eyes and pushes him. "But really, I'm glad you did something other than mope around."

"I do not mope!" _That_ is completely out of the blue.

"Then what _do_ you do, Matt? You're not talking to me, that's for sure. You looked terrible this morning, you've gotten increasingly agitated and jumpy these last few weeks and whenever someone calls you on it, you just make a joke or change the subject- or runaway." Her voice raises, and he realizes too late that he's pushed her- and her control- too far. He never should have kept it from her- never should have tried to hide it- because it was inevitable that she would find out.

And now he's paying for it.

"I'm _tired_ of you running away, Matt. No- don't you _dare_ give me that look, because you know _exactly_ what I am talking about. You look like a goddamn _ghost_, Matt, as if you're haunting something- or something is haunting you. But since you apparently are incapable of sharing your feelings to the people that actually _care_ about you, instead of telling the whole fucking _world_ about your problems-"

Okay, so she apparently isn't over _that_ one yet. "Emily," he tries to interrupt, "just-"

"_No_, Matt, I'm not going to 'just' anything," she leaned into his face, "because you need to hear this, and hear it _now_. I _worry_ about you, because for some unknown reason, I _care_ about you. And I'm _tired_ of you constantly pushing me away, pushing away _any_ contact that is just the teeniest bit personal- and I've had enough. This is _it_, Flannery. You either tell me what's going on with you _right now_, or I'm walking away, and I'm not coming back."

It's a blow to the gut that almost sends him to the ground, though her hands never left her sides.

He's screwed it up. He's screwed up everything so badly that he doesn't know if he can fix it- if he _wants_ to fix it- if it might just be easier to let her go and deal with everything on his own.

But he can't.

They've become too intertwined now, too connected for him to just end it- end _them_. He's started thinking of her like that now, an '_us'_ instead of a 'she' and 'he'. When they started this thing, sure, he was scared to death to commit to something. He was the one who laid down the rules, making it clear that while they could certainly have fun- it wasn't going to get too involved. Really, partners sleeping together is bad enough. But partners in a real, lengthy emotional relationship? It spelled disaster. Better to keep it light, simple, free of complications and commitments and everything else that had a tendency to get messy.

And here he is, months later, realizing that he'd been breaking those very rules for the last months.

He is not just friends with her, or dating her casually, or even _beginning_ to move on to the next level.

He already _has_. He's _already_ in a committed relationship with her, with the ties and baggage and triumphs and tribulations and everything that goes with a relationship that actually _means _something- that actually is _going_ somewhere.

It scares the hell out of him.

And now he's got one foot over the ledge of an abyss- he's so close to falling...

But is falling a good thing? Or a bad thing?

Does he take the chance?

"Emily..." His throat is suddenly dry. This is it. He _has_ to decide now.

Her arms are crossed, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. "Yes?"

"I-" He breaks off, frozen. They stand there in the dark, just watching, waiting. They do not stir, time simply passing by.

"_I_ can't do this anymore." She finally breaks in. "_I_ can't wait for you, Matt. At least, not like this. Not being in some half-relationship that doesn't dare go anywhere, because you're too damn _frightened_ to do anything about it." She turns away, shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Matt, I really am. But until you're ready to actually _talk_ to me, much less be in a real relationship- good bye. I'll see you at work."

He watches her walk away from him, but he's paralyzed. No matter what he wants, he can't move from the spot, as if an invisible barrier is there, keeping him away.

It happens in slow motion- she glides down the sidewalk, into the street, head held high. The car comes tearing around the corner, completely unexpected, way over the speed limit.

There's nothing he can do but watch.

And in a flash, it's all over.


	3. Chapter 3: Reflection

**AN:** Sorry for the wait. I've been trying to decide how to end this chapter and I finally just decided to go with what I already had written. Thanks for all the reviews, guys, I really appreciate it. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as you enjoyed the last one.

**Chapter 3: **Reflections

"Matt."

Swirling mist covers his vision, his head pounds.

"_Matt._"

It isn't just his head, he realizes. It's _everything_. His entire body is in pain.

"_Matt_, come on, wake up."

Emily. It's got to be Emily calling him. But- she's dead, isn't she? Does this mean he's also dead? From the way his body is killing him, he wouldn't be too surprised...

He tries to flutter his eyes, the world suddenly exploding in color and blurs, until his vision settles. He's in a white room with bland curtains and machines and Emily is standing in front of him- wait a second. He saw her _die_.

She can't be suddenly alive. It's impossible. And now he wonders if death is simply a white room, with the hum of machines and curtains and a funny taste in his mouth and a pain in his head.

Can you feel pain if you're dead?

"Wha'?" He smacks his lips, trying to get feeling back into them. "What's going on? Am I dead?"

Emily just sighs and rolls her eyes. "No, Matt, you're not dead. You're in the hospital, though."

Hospital? How did he get there? "But _you_'re here- and you're dead." His mouth tastes like cotton and he wishes desperately for water. Is there water here?

"No, I'm not." She sees his longing gaze on the water pitcher and pours him a glass. "I am not dead, dying or injured in anyway." She hands him the glass, and then quickly catches it as he loses his grip on the glass. He feels semi-humiliated that he can't hold or drink himself, but the relief of the cool water on his lips and tongue make up for it. And it's kind of nice to have her hold the cup for him...

He swallows the water. "But- but I _saw_ you die."

"Well, you imagined it, because I never died. How else would I be standing here?" She takes the glass away and sets it down, pulling up a chair to the side of his bed.

"Because maybe I'm dead and you just don't want to tell me, because that's the only way that I could see you. Or you could be a ghost in denial." He muses on that for a second. She sure _looks_ corporeal, and she didn't have a problem handling a glass or a chair. Hmm...maybe a new breed of ghost?

"I am _not_ a ghost, Flannery; get that into your head. The pain killers you're on obviously have screwed with your brain." She shakes her head, with a ghost of a smile on her face.

"Pain killers?" That would explain the fuzziness at the edge of his vision, the pain in his skull- and arms, and legs and oh, his whole being. "What happened?"

"You fainted, that's what. And then you hit your head rather hard on the floor and were unconscious and after that...things just went down hill." She leans over, takes his hand in hers. There's an IV in his hand, he realizes, and a hospital bracelet and hmm, maybe she _is_ telling the truth. There's enough evidence towards it, at least. "Apparently your system was so drained that after the initial trauma, it just started to shut down. Not to mention you were bleeding in the brain- you cracked your skull open, shards got into your brain, Matt. You were touch-and-go for awhile there, and no one had any idea how you got into such bad shape."

That...doesn't make any sense, and he says so.

"That's what happened." She runs light fingers over his forehead. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"You breaking up with me." Her touch is so nice, but in an instant, she pulls away with a force that burns.

"_What_? I never broke up with you." She gets up, starts to pace. "I'm paging the doctor- I was supposed to page him anyway once you woke up- this is ridiculous. You're hallucinating and there might be lasting damage-"

"Emily- _Emily_!" He shouts, his lungs protesting at the force. "I asked you out this morning and you accepted and went away with Lia and I ended up losing spectacularly at paintball with Duff and Frank, and then I did some paper work and went home and picked you up, except we never made it past the front of your building, because you got mad at me, because I wasn't sharing my feelings or something like that, so you stormed away and this car came peeling around the corner and hit you, and I just _stood_ there, paralyzed, I didn't do anything, it was all my fault, I let you _die_..." The images barrage on his mind, causing him to gasp in pain. Emily lying in the street, motionless. The car coming out of nowhere. Her eyes glistening when she broke up with him. Her touch, their embrace before it all started...

And then he notices the look on her face, the horror in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips, her features frozen in time and space, her hand tightly clasping his.

"What? _What_, Emily? What's wrong?"

She's scaring him now, reminding him all too well of the way she looked when she died- an image he wishes to purge from his mind, but realizes he probably never will. It will always stay with him, taunting him, reminding him of what he almost lost- what could happen at any moment...

"We never went out, Matt." The words leak from her lips, barely heard. "You _did_ lose at paintball, but you never made it past that. You- Frank turned around, to put away something or whatever- I don't really know what exactly went on, but when he turned around, you were...saying _something_, and then- you just took a step-right onto the stairs and you fell. By the time he got to you, you were lying sprawled on the stairs, unconscious, and your head bleeding. You cracked your head open on the steps, is what the EMS guys said, after they got over the shock of your paint-covered clothing- which they thought was blood at first. And then they rushed you to the hospital, after your heart rate kept on diminishing and you stopped breathing..."

He stares at her, uncomprehending. This- it all doesn't make sense. It _can't_ be true. Everything was so _real_- it isn't just a dream, some made up nightmare.

It's _real_.

It has to be.

"You've been unconscious for the last fifty-eight hours, Matt. They rushed you into surgery to remove the pieces of bone from your brain, and they had to drain the blood and you just kept on getting worse and for awhile there, they were afraid that you would die..." She trails off, and he sees the tears glistening in her eyes. "I was so worried about you, and everyone else came by to check in on you- Dr. Brightman said that your head trauma along with acute sleep deprivation had basically worn out your body so much that it was just beginning to fail." And then her eyes flashed and he recognized the signal for 'you're going to get it'. "Dr. Brightman said your sleep deprivation was to the point that it looked like you had been _tortured_! As if someone had purposefully kept you from getting any sleep for a span of almost two _months_! He said that if he didn't know better, he would have thought you were some victim of torture, Matt. _Torture_. What the _hell _has been going on with you for these last two months? And why haven't you _done_ anything about it? It could have _killed_ you, Matt- and it almost did!" She hissed at him, finally bounding out of her seat and pacing the room. "What is going _on_ with you?"

"I-" He's at a lost for words, unable to confess his feelings. What is he supposed to do- tell her that she's the reason he's been unable to sleep? That he's been pumping himself full of caffeine and energy drinks and pills and anything he can get to keep himself awake, to the point that when he does finally sleep, he's so knocked out that he won't have nightmares?

He can't do that to her. He can't do it to himself, because he'd be treading on dangerous territory- he'd be practically confessing how deep his feelings ran for her. And while she never took part in the scene from last night- if what she says is true, and he's beginning to believe it is- he certainly did. He has to avoid that at all costs.

He can't lose her again.

"I- I've been getting phone calls in the middle of the night." He finally confesses, feeling at least a slight weight off of his shoulders. "They've been going on for a while, and when I pick up, no one's there. I hang up, and it happens again hours later, or a night later or even during the day sometimes... last night? No, the night before that- or whenever I ended up in the hospital- I got two that night, and then at the office. Threatened to run a trace next time it happened. And then went to lose at paintball..." He trails off, hoping that it will calm her at least a little bit. Telling at least part of the truth should help- it _is_ true that the phone calls haven't been making anything easier, these past weeks.

He's actually wondering why he didn't threaten a trace long before- it seems to have worked. At least he doubts he's gotten any calls in the last days, while he's been unconscious.

She trains a calculating glare at his face, and he tries to appear as honest and innocent as possible. He doesn't really think he succeeded, though, when she gives him a sour look. Hopefully the fact that he's just woken up from a two day coma and is still in a hospital will save him from at least some of her wrath...

"Is that so? Then why-"

Before she can finish, the door opens and a man in a lab coat enters. "Hello, Ms. Lehman, Mr. Flannery. I heard that someone woke up. I'm Dr. Brightman." He comes around to the other side of the bed, opposite of Emily's vacated chair and leans over to flash a light in Matt's eyes. Matt shies back from the bright light, cursing inwardly. He always _hated_ that about doctors.

"Your vitals look all right, Mr. Flannery," he says, examining the read-outs from the machines. "And while you're still going to be very weak, I don't think there is going to be any lasting damage. In a few days, as long as you take it relatively easy, you should be back to your old self."

"No brain damage?" Emily quickly asks. "He's going to be completely okay?"

"There's always a risk of brain damage after an acute head injury, Ms. Lehman. But from his vitals and the fact that he's currently conscious and lucid, I'm going to say that he should be perfectly fine with a few days of complete rest and then a another week or two of _light_ work." Brightman gives him a pointed look.

"When can I leave?" He asks, giving an uneasy look around the room. He's never liked hospitals, and though he isn't too disturbed over the two and a half days he spent there (after all, he was unconscious, so it isn't like he _remembers_ it), he still wants to get out- _soon_.

"Another day, I think," Brightman answers, looking down at the chart in his hands, marking something. "You were in a coma for over two days, Mr. Flannery, and suffered much trauma before that. I'd also like to get a psychiatric evaluation on you, to figure out the reasons behind the sleep deprivation- it was the catalyst for your current condition, and I want that solved before I release you. It seems you were hallucinating when you fell down the stairs- and that worries me greatly. Tonight we'll hook you up to a polysomnograph and see what it says." At Matt's deer-stuck-in-the-headlights look, the doctor quickly assures him, "you're doing much better. The coma did wonders with restoring your energy reserves and while you'll be taking painkillers as well as doing a lot of resting over the next week, you don't have to stay here much longer. It's really just for observation, Mr. Flannery."

"Is he going to need someone with him, once he is released, Doctor? Or can he manage on his own?" Emily cuts in.

"We always suggest someone accompanying a post surgical patient from the hospital, Ms. Lehman. And it would be best for the first few ways if he stays at home, in bed." With a knowing and rueful glance at Matt, the physician continues, "but I don't see the patient behaving. Therefore I do suggest that someone accompany him and keep an eye on him until he's fit to return to _light_ work."

"Very well," she nods her head. "I'll take care of notifying Cheryl, Matt. And tomorrow?" She looks at the doctor for confirmation, "I'll be by to pick you up."

"I think I can leave now," Matt rather pathetically says. "I am feeling a lot better." He waves the IV-laden arm. "You can start by taking this out."

Brightman chuckles. "Forget it, Mr. Flannery. In any other case, I'd recommend you stay here for at least a week, recuperating. But since I know that's not going to happen, I'll release you tomorrow afternoon, so you can recuperate on your own." Emily says nothing, but Matt can just tell by the look on her face that she's _daring_ him to try something.

He intelligently decides against it.

"I think that's everything," Dr. Brightman says, shutting the chart. "I suggest getting some more rest, Mr. Flannery. Actually," he decides, "I require it. I'll be sending in the nurse with a tranquilizer in a few moments- I don't think you'll be getting rest unless you are literally forced to. Good bye," he nods to Emily, shakes Matt's hand.

The two agents watch his departure, before beginning to speak.

"Emily, help me get out-"

"Matt, I can't believe what an _idiot_-"

They both cut off, their eyes locking with another, daring the other to go on. Finally, she begins.

"I'm not helping you get out. I am _extremely_ annoyed with you right now- and there's no way in hell I'd condone setting you out in public when you were _hallucinating _at work. There's something very wrong with you, Matt, and I don't really know yet if I buy your 'phone-call' excuse. You are staying here until you are released, and then I will take you home and _guard_ you, so that you don't try anything stupid. I'll let Cheryl know now- I need to meet with the state prosecutor in the Larson case, anyways, and you will stay here and be _good_ until I come back. Plus," she smirks, "the nurse will be here any moment to put you back to sleep, so any escape attempts will be useless."

"Not if I get out before she comes," he mumbles under his breath, so she can't hear him. She apparently gets the gist anyways, because she glares at him.

"Don't you _dare_, Flannery. And once you get out, we're also going to have one hell of a talk."

_Damn._

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, the room is dark, a slight glow coming from the machines he's hooked up to. The pounding in his head hasn't decreased, but he experimentally lifts an arm and learns that _that_ pain, at least, has subsided. He tries to sit up- feels the symphony in his head increase, his vision going dark, his torso protesting the movement- and decides that he's better off lying down. If only he could see what time it is- and figure how long he's been out. True to the doctor's words, as Emily was leaving, a nurse came in to administrate his prescribed tranquilizer- and he went out like a light. This, of course, means that he has no idea how much time has gone by- for all he knows, it could be the next morning- or the next night.

He really hopes it isn't the latter, seeing how Emily promised to pick him up before then...

Then again, he can definitely see Emily learning that he's still out and telling the doctor to keep him another night. And...that might not be a bad thing, he decides, as he realizes how _refreshed_ he feels. He definitely isn't up to running a marathon or anything mildly taxing- but for the first time in _months_, he's had a peaceful sleep. No dreams, no obsessing over Emily, no holding Emily's dead body in his arms, no feelings of guilt.

If only it would stay that way...

"Oh, you're awake." He squints as the door opens and a male nurse enters his room. "How are you feeling?"

"Better- though my head's still killing me." He holds a hand to shield his eyes from the light. "What do you want? And what time is it?"

The nurse chuckles. "It's a bit after three in the morning, Special Agent Flannery. And what I want is you." He holds up a syringe, filled with a clear liquid. "It's time for another dose."

"But I'm feeling much better and rested." Matt protests, not wanting to risk falling back asleep and waking up who-knows-when. He really _does_ want to get out of there, even if it _was_ the best sleep he'd had in ages. There's just too much else going on to stay in there, bored out of his mind. And he _hates_ hospitals anyway. "I don't need it-"

"Trust me, you need it." The nurse sends him a smile, but he isn't reassured in the least. "I had no idea what shape you were in, before this started. But now I'm finding myself more and more intrigued."

_Huh?_ What the _hell **i**_s the guy talking about? He watches the nurse lean over and slowly inject the syringe into his IV. This nurse is definitely an odd guy- maybe it's a side-effect of being on the nightshift. But before he can ponder anymore, he feels the weight of his eyelids, dragging down, and the lull of unconsciousness.

But he almost could swear that the nurse, before leaving, said a very confusing remark...

"Sleep well, Agent Flannery, and if you awake, you might be ready."

A click of a door shutting.

Then the loud screams of a heart-monitor failing.


End file.
